


The Last Chapter In The Story

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar
Genre: M/M, Paris (City)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-08 00:15:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6831094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everybody desires closure and an end to their story. Neal found that he was no different.<br/>An AU story after the series finale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Chapter In The Story

     Neal drifted through the hazy mist, plaintively saying the same words yet again.

     "Pourquoi ne l'as tu jamais vu? J'étais juste à tes côtés, jour après jour, t'attendant et te désirant, mais tu avais des œillères - pour cela, en tout cas. Pourquoi n'est tu pas arrivé à m'estimer, à vouloir de moi autant que de ta femme? N'y avait-il assez de place que pour une personne dans ton cœur? Pourquoi ne pouvais-tu pas m'aimer, aussi? "   


     The expatriate in Paris awoke with a start, the images still vivid in his mind’s eye. He had been in France for so long that, apparently, he now dreamed in that language as well as spoke it on a day-to-day basis. The first rays of dawn were just beginning to filter around the window curtain, and, not yet fully awake, he mumbled those REM thoughts in English while staring listlessly at the fine cracks on the high ceiling above him in the ages-old apartment on the Rue Foch.

_Why didn’t you ever see? I was right there beside you day after day, wanting and willing, but you had blinders on—at least about that. Why couldn’t you come to value me, to want me as much as you did your wife? Was there only room for one person in your heart? Why couldn’t you love me, too?_

     This wasn’t the first dream like this that Neal had experienced during his self-imposed exile in Paris. “ _The”_ dream was always a variation of the same theme that his subconscious held onto in defiance. Maybe the real root of Neal’s problem was that he always wanted things that he shouldn’t have. But, admitting that fact to himself had never stopped the covetous feeling that gnawed at his insides until they were raw. The torture had gone on for years—always painfully sublimated and never acted upon. He was the buddy, the partner who made Peter Burke look good on paper with astounding closure statistics. He was also the thorn in Peter’s side when their methodology inevitably diverged. Nevertheless, they were almost always together through good times and bad, and that did not help matters.

     Neal had tried to forget Peter and the longing when he fled to Paris, he really did. But, how did one go about putting almost a decade of unwavering hope behind you? To combat the loneliness and lack of intimacy, Neal had taken a parade of women and men to his bed, and, over time, he had settled into a sort-of relationship with Etienne. It seemed that Neal had a type—older married men. However, this one certainly did not espouse monogamy—Etienne had a wife and two teenage sons. But, maybe this was a wiser choice, the first necessary step of his rehabilitation. To the former con man, the Frenchman was an acceptable alternative because it reinforced the idea that he would never desire Neal’s love. All that Etienne wanted was the use of Neal’s body.

     The sex was hard and rough. Why wouldn’t it be? They had no safe words that would call a halt to their sometimes-kinky encounters. More than likely, Etienne relished doing things to Neal that he would never consider doing to his spouse. Strangely, Neal was okay with that. It was sort of like a penance for his actions and the tsunami of hurt that he had left behind in New York. Like the old saints in the Bible who flagellated themselves for their sins, Neal’s pain was the atonement that he owed to the karmic universe. But, unfortunately, it still did not stop the sorrow and the wanting.

     It had been months since he had told Mozzie to leave the breadcrumb trail. Neal had kept abreast of the Pink Panthers and their various trials, and knew that the threat had finally been neutralized. Neal also rationalized that Peter had to have figured out the import of those arcane clues by now.

     Neal waited and hoped, but the lover in his dreams had never come, not even to arrest him. Most likely, the FBI agent was glad to be free of the monkey on his back who consistently caused chaos in Peter’s orderly life. Elizabeth was probably ecstatic, as well. Now she had her husband all to herself, not to mention a new addition to her tight life circle of loved ones. Neal was never given to jealousy, but it was hard not to be wistful almost to the point of grieving for what he had lost. But then, his mind reminded him, how could you lose what you never had?

~~~~~~~~~~

     Spring had come to Paris, encouraging the ornamental trees to blossom and the perennial bulbs to push up crocuses, daffodils, and tulips. It was delightful, as only the City of Light could be. The hot, oppressive summer followed, with the welcome splendor of the fall months on its heels. The leafy foliage was now transforming into vibrant shades of crimson and gold, and Neal longed to paint their natural glory.

     The rhythm of life hummed along, day after day, until suddenly, a lethal threat appeared in the form of Saracens determined to maim and kill in the name of their own crusade. In this century, they were not wielding wicked scimitars, but rather weapons just as deadly strapped to their chests.

     Neal had been a patron in that charming, small café on a mild November evening when fanatically vicious men inflicted the ultimate sacrilege against fellow members of the human race. He had been sitting on the crowded, but still intimate patio, when the blast literally threw him from his chair onto the cobblestones in the street. His head had hit the curb, momentarily stunning and disorienting him. When his sense of hearing returned, and his awareness sharpened, he heard frightened screams and agonizing cries. Patrons, who had been enjoying their meal and pleasant conversation just a few moments earlier, were now either shrieking or moaning weakly. It was a distorted symphony of discordant notes.

     Neal couldn’t move at first. Laying on his stomach, head skewed to the side, he found himself starring uncomprehendingly at a thin rivulet of dark red blood as it snaked across the pavement. When his vision cleared, he realized that the blood was coming from an arm a few feet away—an arm that was not connected to a body! The mind does strange things to those in shock. It brings inane things into vivid and sharp focus. Neal studied the hand at the end of that arm with detached interest. Undoubtedly, it was a woman’s—with pale pink polish adorning the nails, and a thin gold band on the ring finger. The thought kept going round and round in Neal’s concussed head that some wife, and possibly a mother, would never again be able to enfold her husband or her child in a loving hug with both of her extremities.

     Neal closed his eyes and tried to breathe through his mouth to quell the rising bilious nausea. He quickly realized that if he took air in through his nose, he was assaulted by the pungent, coppery smell of blood, and that just made things worse. Willing his own hand into motion, he put trembling fingers to his head, not really surprised when they came away wet and red. He wondered if he were dying, and found that he was strangely unmoved by that possibility.

     Actually, he felt lethargic all over, completely oblivious to the pulsating sirens of emergency vehicles that added to the din. Energetic rescue workers in vests seem to materialize out of thin air and started the grim task of triaging the injured in the carnage. Eventually, they came to Neal, assessing his level of consciousness, then cleaning the wound above his eye and quickly butterflying it closed. They wrapped one of those weightless, thinsulate emergency blankets around his shoulders and told him that as soon as the more critically injured were evacuated, someone would take him to the hospital as well. The traumatized man didn’t answer and simply stared at a serious face before him. Some moments crystalize in time, and Neal would always remember that the man had green eyes and that they were very kind.

     Left to his own devices, Neal eventually pushed himself up on trembling legs and began to stumble his way home. Somewhere between the café and his apartment, the metallic, heat-conserving cover had slipped from his shoulders unnoticed, and he shivered in the brisk November air. When he finally pushed open the door of his flat, he headed directly for the bed, pulling the blankets and feather duvet around him. He could not seem to get warm and didn’t all during that night, or the day that followed. He also could not bring himself to eat. Instead, he held scalding cups of tea in shaking hands, trying to inhale as well as absorb the heat. There was no real sleep to help him temporarily escape. Every time that he closed his eyes, he saw the bodies around him and that hand with pink nail polish on the fingers.

     Sometime during that second day, he called Etienne’s home, something that he had never done before because Etienne had always been the one to call him. The housekeeper informed Neal that the Monsieur had taken his wife and children to their villa in the country right after the terrorist-coordinated bombings and shootings had occurred in several restaurants, a concert hall, and a soccer stadium. Neal felt like he had been set adrift on an ice floe.

     Thoughts tumbled over and over in his mind. If he had died, as had over one hundred and twenty people at the hands of jihadists who brought their war to the banks of the Seine, would anyone have missed him? He remembered that old philosophical chestnut—“If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?” Neal was now convinced that his death would not have made even the smallest of sounds as he went quietly into that good night. He knew that there was nobody in his present life who would mourn him, not a soul who would inter his body or spread his ashes. It was his own fault because he had kept everyone at arm’s length. Leaving friends in his old life had hurt too much, so he didn’t want to risk it again. Now, he never felt more alone.

     With bloodshot eyes, he watched the scenes on the television re-enacted over and over. He listened to survivors’ stories told haltingly through anguished tears. He saw the world’s response, as iconic landmarks throughout the hemispheres bathed themselves in the French colors of red, white, and blue. The shells of the Sydney Opera House, Christ the Redeemer overlooking Rio de Janeiro, the London National Gallery—all lit up—as were so many others in a stubborn testament of solidarity. His heart ached when he saw the new World Trade Center in Lower Manhattan adorned with the French tricolors. New Yorkers had endured once before, and proud, resilient Parisians would do the same.

     Two weeks later, Neal came to a decision. It was not an impulsive one—Lord knows, he had given this so much thought—and now he was listening to his heart rather than his head. On a blustery Sunday in December, he arrived at Charles de Gaulle Airport and boarded a flight that would get him into JFK on Monday morning. He wasn’t suspiciously scrutinized by security at the checkpoint because he had bought a round trip ticket on one of those internet discount travel sites, had a carry-on with a change of clothes, and was wearing a well-cut designer suit. He had sailed through immigration in the States, as well, claiming that he was in New York on business. He had an attaché case filled with a myriad of documents pertaining to art, and even had various sketches in the mix. He now also sported a close-cropped beard and dark rimmed glasses, and spoke with a French accent. Neal Caffrey always knew how to cross borders and oceans with panache.  

     He placed his props of a carry-on and attaché case into an airport locker, and then Ubered his way into Manhattan, with his eventual destination being a specific address in Brooklyn. When Peter stepped out of his front door at 8:15 that morning, the unsuspecting man was confronted by a ghost from his past.

     Neal stood on the sidewalk across the street. He remained as still as a sentry in a black cashmere overcoat with a Burberry scarf at his neck. The trademark fedora was nowhere in sight. Both men stared at each other across the roof of the late-model BMW parked at the curb. Neal noted the rapid-fire mixture of emotions that flashed across Peter’s face, but the former con artist thought that his skills at reading people were rusty because he could not catalogue the significance of any that he momentarily noted.

     Finally, Peter was the first to break from the frozen tableau. Using his key fob, he unlocked the car doors with a beep and moved closer.

     “Get in, Neal,” were the only words that came out of his mouth. Actually, neither man spoke as Peter drove to a quiet park down near the Hudson. By now the heater in the car had made it comfortable, and Peter left the car idling as he coasted to a stop in the deserted lot. The only other people about this cold morning were dedicated joggers on the distant running path.

     Finally, Neal turned to face the man beside him. “You’re not surprised to see me, are you Peter?”

     “No,” Peter acknowledged with a sigh, “not really. But, to be honest, I am confused about how I feel right now. Of course, when I first came to realize that you had faked your death, I was angry, so maybe it was a good thing that you weren’t around then to see me on the warpath. But that emotion didn’t last long because I also figured out exactly why you did what you did, and for that I’m grateful.”

     Peter had turned to study the familiar face beside him and to stare into those unfathomable blue eyes.

     “I really don’t understand why you are risking your freedom by coming back, Neal. What is the allure? I would have thought that you would have begun an exciting new chapter in your life by now.”

     Neal gave a small sardonic snort. “I can’t start a new chapter in my life, Peter, until I bring a close to the previous one. There are a lot of plot lines that aren’t resolved, and I want my story finished, one way or the other. Right now I’m stuck in limbo and I can’t move on.”

     “Tell me, Neal,” Peter said softly. “Tell me what’s got you mired down so that I can understand.”

      Neal took a deep breath. “A few weeks ago, I had an epiphany after a life-changing event that showed me how empty my existence had become. I was alone. Everyone that I valued and loved was across a very wide ocean, and I found that I couldn’t—didn’t—want to replace them.”

     To Neal’s surprise, Peter reached out to run a thumb gently across the still healing scar above Neal’s right eye.

     “Does that life-changing event have anything to do with this?”

     The tenderness of Peter’s touch and his simple question caught Neal off-guard, and he found that there was suddenly a tightness in his chest and that his mouth had gone dry.

     “Tell me,” Peter once again encouraged the obviously distraught man beside him.

     So, in a voice that was halting and hoarse at first, Neal finally let the words tumble from his lips to relate the horror of the terrorist attack. At the end of the tale, he admitted that his reality was sterile and meaningless. His passing would not have made a difference in anyone’s life.

    “Neal,” Peter finally said quietly, “you did make a big difference in everyone’s life here. We all mourned you deeply after your ‘death.’ There was a memorial service that overflowed the church. Even Bancroft attended, and Hughes came out of retirement to deliver a little speech. A lot of people that day spoke of you fondly, telling anecdotes and admitting that you had changed their lives in some way. You were loved, and you were going to be greatly missed.”

     “How much did you miss me, Peter?” Neal asked curiously.

     Peter sighed. “You left a big hole in my life, Neal.”

     “Did you ever know?” Neal took the plunge because there was only one way to move on no matter how much it hurt.

     Peter realized that Neal was not asking about the precisely planned and executed con that Neal had perpetrated. Neal was asking something infinitely deeper and more personal.

     “Yeah, I guess that I knew almost from the start,” the older man admitted, “and that knowledge scared the hell out of me. Everyday, I’d repeat a mantra _—‘I can’t act on this, I can’t act on this.’_   I tried to tell myself that I was misinterpreting the signs, that I was seeing what I wanted to see. Hell, Neal, you can be so damn charming, how could I possibly know that it was real? But, I think that it hit me the hardest and I lost any doubts when we were attempting to defuse that TNT on Adler’s U-boat. We looked at each other and words weren’t really necessary.”

     “So, why didn’t you ever let me know about those feelings, Peter? Why didn’t you come to Paris to look for me? Was it because you didn’t want Elizabeth to know?”

     Peter smiled wryly. “Neal, El knew before I did. She always claimed that the seeds were planted the day that ‘James Bonds’ came into my life. Unbelievably, she was okay with that.”

     “Then why?” Neal persisted.

     Peter was ever the voice of reason. “Because it would have put us both at risk. I probably would have become a pariah and lost my job. Moreover, you would end up back in prison—something that I did not think that I could bear. So, I needed to protect us at all costs. You might be impulsively foolhardy, but that’s just not who I am.”

     Neal’s blue eyes had a sudden sheen, and he closed them quickly and settled his head back against the seat.

     “So, what your saying is, we’re two different people who are too different to ever work out,” Neal murmured.

     “Look at me, Neal,” Peter pleaded. “Look at me, please. What I should be saying is that things have changed. This is not the same life that you left behind. Your ‘death’ put things in perspective for me so that I can really see what is important, and it isn’t a job or a townhome in Brooklyn.”

     Peter continued to stare searchingly at this man who was so much more than a friend. It seemed that they had arrived at a crossroads. Taking a deep breath, he surged onward into the unknown.

     “If you’re willing, Neal, maybe now we can make this thing work. I have an open invitation to join a team in Washington DC. You will probably be pleased to know that Kramer has retired, and his position as Art Crimes Director is still unfilled. The job could be mine if I said the word. It wouldn’t be hard to re-locate. El has all but relegated the running of her business to an associate because her world is now centered around motherhood. And, little Neal is still pretty portable. Seeing as how he’s just a baby, he’s not yet entrenched in the school system or tied up with soccer practices.”

     Peter had a fleeting thought. “I assume that you are aware of your namesake. I’m sure either Mozzie or June has kept you informed.”

     Neal was finally able to look Peter in the eye. “Yeah,” he said softly, “I know about the baby, and I was never more touched than when I discovered that you had named him after me.”

     Peter grimaced. “One can only hope that he doesn’t walk in your footsteps. One con man in the family is enough! So, what do you say, Neal? Is it time to make things right? Is it time for you to come back where you belong?”

     And just like that, Neal Caffrey wrote the final words in that chapter of his story, and the book could be closed. Very soon, he would begin a new volume that held a promise of happiness and fulfillment. Yes, it was time for him to live again!


End file.
